


on the catwalk

by biblionerd07



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Fluff and Humor, M/M, Overdramatic Bucky Barnes, Pining, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 08:09:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7837027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biblionerd07/pseuds/biblionerd07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky just wanted Steve to draw him. So he started posing...without Steve knowing about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	on the catwalk

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [В свете софитов](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8377534) by [PrettyPenny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyPenny/pseuds/PrettyPenny)



> You are all enablers for feeding this. You know who you are.

When Bucky came home from work, vision slightly blurred from squinting down at numbers all day, Steve was, predictably, drawing. The air outside was so cold it hurt _Bucky’s_ lungs to breathe, so Steve would probably keel over and die if he so much as peeked his head out. Even inside with the window and door shut tight and the quilt Bucky’s mother made him for his fourteenth birthday around his shoulders, Steve was shivering a little, and it made Bucky’s stomach hurt.

“Hey,” Bucky said. Steve’s brow was all furrowed the way it got when he concentrated and he didn’t even acknowledge Bucky, which meant he was close to finishing whatever he was working on. The kitchen was empty and Bucky fought back the annoyance his growling stomach brought up.

It wasn’t like it was Steve’s _job_ to make him dinner every night. But it would’ve been nice once in a while to come home to something, especially since Steve was home all day.

Bucky felt guilty for thinking it. Steve’s drawing was his work—last week the butcher had paid him three whole dollars for drawing an ad to run in the newspaper. That would pay for almost all his medicine from this recent bout of sickness that had hit. And besides, Steve would be out working somewhere if he could. Bucky was just hungry and cranky.

And a bit… _frustrated_. In the way twenty-year-old boys could get sometimes. Or, in Bucky’s case lately, almost all the time. Steve was always around, which was great because Bucky loved the guy, but it was terrible because Bucky _loved_ theguy.

They’d been best friends since they were seven and Steve knocked out Sammy Jameson’s front tooth for pushing Becca off the sidewalk, and Bucky couldn’t really pinpoint when his glances over at Steve to make sure his color was alright turned into glances over at Steve just to _look_. Now Bucky noticed Steve’s long fingers wrapped around his pencil and thought about other things they could wrap around and would rapidly have to make an excuse to run anywhere else immediately before anyone noticed and had him arrested or something.

Bucky gave himself a little shake and got dinner going. No doubt Steve hadn’t eaten since breakfast, too wrapped up in whatever he was doing to notice time passing until his hands started to shake from going too long without food. There wasn’t much to be had for dinner; they weren’t living hand-to-mouth these days, but Bucky was only a junior bookkeeper and Steve’s bones were aching again so he could hardly get out of bed. Bucky said maybe he was growing, and Steve had just glared at him.

At any rate, money wasn’t quite as free-flowing as Bucky had imagined it would be when he took the job, and even if they _did_ have the money, neither of them had time nor inclination to go buy food. They usually ended up heading to the diner down the street, but it didn’t look like Steve was in any shape to go walking.

Bucky scrambled some eggs to slap between their not-quite-moldy bread, and he opened a tin of tomatoes to throw in, too, because he thought his mother would appreciate it. By the time the food was ready, his stomach was spasming in hunger and Steve had finished his drawing.

“Oh,” Steve said, blinking up at him when Bucky put a plate in front of him. “Hi, Buck.”

“Hi,” Bucky said dryly, ripping into his own sandwich.

“Thanks,” Steve mumbled through a full mouth. His mother would have slapped his hand, but Bucky didn’t care.

“What were you drawing?” Bucky asked once he’d eaten enough to feel like a human again. He picked at a piece of egg that had fallen out of his sandwich.

“Hm?” Steve asked, mouth still full. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Bucky raised his eyebrows, pulse starting to pick up. Maybe Steve’d been drawing _him_.

Steve used to draw Bucky all the time, back when they were kids and he was trying to figure out noses and ears. Those had both given him a real hard time when he started drawing faces. Bucky hadn’t been the most patient or still model, but he’d done his best when Steve asked.

Maybe Bucky should’ve seen all this coming after all.

But Steve never seemed to draw Bucky anymore. And Bucky didn’t know if that meant something. Surely if Steve felt the same way Bucky did he wouldn’t be able to _stop_ drawing. Bucky couldn’t stop looking at Steve, or picturing him in his mind, or thinking about him all the time, so if Steve shared his feelings, wouldn’t he share his predicament, too?

“What were you drawing?” Bucky repeated, making his voice as casual as possible.

Steve shrugged, a little peeved at Bucky pushing. He always got irritable after a long day of drawing. Because he _didn’t eat_ all day. “Just something for Dr. Barkley.”

Bucky scowled. Dr. Barkley took all their money. And he hardly ever did anything for Steve except give grim outlooks and take all his blood. Steve needed that.

“Weren’t drawing me, huh?” Bucky asked, taking care to sound joking.

Steve snorted. “Drawing you wouldn’t take all day.” He pushed back from the table. “I’ll wash up, since you made it. I got the paper over there, if you want to read it.”

Bucky slumped. Sometimes he got a little flash of something, like maybe Steve _did_ feel the same, but then there were times like these that dashed his hopes. He watched Steve for a minute, cataloguing the crooked length of his spine and the way his hair stuck up straight in the back, and then shook his head and went to the couch to read the paper, even though all of it was dark news about the war in Europe. It gave Bucky a pit in his stomach when he thought about it, and no doubt Steve was going to start ranting again if he saw what Bucky was reading.

“Oh, wow,” Steve breathed about an hour later. Bucky looked up to see him grabbing his sketchpad and pencils and racing to the window.

“What?” Bucky asked.

“Look at the way the snow’s falling through the lights!”

Bucky groaned. “It’s snowing again?” It was New York in January; it wasn’t exactly breaking news. Still. He was tired of winter and cold and snow and Steve getting sick.

“Buck, it’s beautiful,” Steve said, chewing on his lip like he always did when he was drawing.

“You’ve been drawing all day,” Bucky pointed out, trying not to sound too grumpy about it. It was bad enough that Bucky was stuck at work all day without Steve; now he came home and Steve was too busy to talk to him?

“Uh-huh,” Steve said absently, already immersed. Bucky knew he was far gone because his chest felt all warm and fond at the sight. “It’s irresistible, though,” Steve said, and Bucky almost agreed out loud before he realized Steve meant the view.

A flashbulb went off in Bucky’s head. Steve would draw him if he made himself look good enough. He could do that. He could make himself look irresistible to Steve. He leaned against the wall right by the window. Steve was already focused there; Bucky wasn’t above helping himself out.

He tilted his head to the side so his neck stretched out and the cord of muscle stood out. Missy Roberts had told him that was _very_ attractive two summers ago when he’d hit another growth spurt. He crossed his legs at the ankle and tried to look nonchalant and aloof. Artists were always drawing people aloof.

“What are you doing?” Steve asked.

“Hm?” Bucky asked carelessly.

“You’re blocking my light,” Steve snapped. “Move, would ya?”

Bucky felt a bit how he figured a kicked dog would probably feel. He tried to keep it off his face, not that Steve would even notice.

“Alright,” he mumbled. “I’m going to bed.”

“Sure,” Steve said distractedly, not even looking up. Bucky trudged to the bedroom and flung himself across the bed, not even bothering to undress. Life was terrible. Bucky was doomed to be alone forever.

Or worse, he’d have to marry some girl, make himself smile whenever she came in the room, feel lipstick against his mouth for the end of all time. Maybe not forever. Eventually she’d get old and stop wearing lipstick, right?

Bucky pressed his face into the pillow and then groaned because it smelled like Steve. Life was terrible and unfair and the universe hated Bucky Barnes.

 

Steve was up and moving around the next day, which was nice. He was wearing a thick sweater Bucky had grown out of and Bucky had to look away for a second because the sight of Steve in his clothes was a bit much. Especially because Steve had actually made dinner—just some potatoes and peas boiled together with a dash of milk, but it was warm and they ate it with bread and Steve was sitting across the table from him and yakking on and on about some lady he’d overheard at the grocer who really did think, even after months had passed and anyone who’d thought it was real knew it was fake, that New Jersey was full of tripods.

He looked beautiful with the setting sun coming in the window behind him, and Bucky wished he could draw like Steve could. He’d fill page after page with Steve’s face and Steve’s hands and Steve’s stubborn chin, the bump in his nose and the perpetual scabs on his knuckles that told you just about everything you needed to know about Steven G. Rogers.

Bucky wished, suddenly, they were switched at the table. Maybe if _he_ was all lit up like that he’d look beautiful enough for Steve to draw him. But Steve liked to work with shadow, too. Bucky yawned and stretched the way his cousin Davey had taught him a few years ago. He wasn’t at a movie and Steve was no girl, but he thought it still might work.

He leaned his elbows back against the chair so his chest was puffed out. He did fifty pushups every morning, making sure his body didn’t go to seed now that he wasn’t out running around all day every day anymore. He’d seen what office jobs did to men, and he couldn’t have that—at the very least, not until he’d won Steve over.

Bucky put on his most serious face, trying to look as distinguished as possible. Maybe if he could look like a statue of some famous war hero Steve would _have_ to memorialize him.

“And I was gonna tell—what’s wrong?” Steve cut himself off to ask.

“Nothing,” Bucky said, too fast.

“Why’re you frowning like that?” Steve pushed. “Something happen at work?”

“No.”

“You’re not sick, are you?” Steve asked worriedly. “If you’re gonna puke, you better make it to the bathroom this time.”

“I’m not gonna puke,” Bucky muttered, mortified. Here was trying to look handsome and art-worthy and Steve thought he looked nauseated. And anyway, he’d only missed the bathroom _once_ when he was sick and he’d been _nine_ , so Steve should really get over it already.

“Alright,” Steve said, sounding unconvinced. “You want some milk of magnesium just to see if it helps?”

“I’m fine!” Bucky insisted. “I’m going to bed.”

“It’s seven thirty,” Steve pointed out, confused. “You _sure_ you’re not sick?”

“Get off my back,” Bucky snapped, and he hated the way Steve’s eyebrows pinched together. Kind of loved it, too, which made him even angrier. “And leave your goddamn eyebrows out of it!”

He ignored Steve’s confused huff as he stomped off to the bedroom.

 

Bucky just needed to try harder, that was all. When he got home the next night, he could hear Steve moving around in the bedroom, so Bucky hurriedly dropped onto the couch. He stretched his legs out in front of him because he knew they were long and looked great. He threw his head back to rest against the arm of the couch and crossed his hands on his stomach.

No, that looked like he was dead. He let one arm drape over his eyes and left the other to dangle invitingly off the edge of the couch. He would’ve liked to lose his tie and unbutton the top button of his shirt, but he didn’t know when Steve was coming out and he didn’t want to get caught mid-button.

He heard Steve start to walk out of the bedroom and let himself look casual. He hoped his shirt was a little rumpled because Steve couldn’t resist drawing the folds in fabric. Steve’s footsteps came closer and then stopped.

“Bucky?” He asked. “Are you okay?”

“Hmm?” Bucky asked nonchalantly.

“You look like an old lady who just fainted,” Steve said. Bucky huffed and moved his arm so he could glare at Steve.

“Gee, thanks.”

“Rough day at work?” Steve asked sympathetically.

“Not really.”

Steve gave him a funny look. “Okay,” he said slowly. “So why are you lying on the couch like Juliet?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. The parallels were more astute than Steve realized, though Bucky didn’t plan to go dying over his love for Steve or anything like that. “I’m just tired,” he groused.

“Well, you look ridiculous,” Steve informed him, heading to the kitchen. “You want a sandwich or something? Looks like you need your strength.”

Bucky sighed and sunk back into the cushions. Now he really _did_ feel like dramatically flinging himself over the couch.

The next night, Bucky brought out the big guns. Literally. He tugged off his tie and started unbuttoning his shirt, slowly enough that Steve had to take notice. Steve raised his eyebrows.

“What are you doing?”

“Just changing out of my work clothes,” Bucky said innocently. Steve went to a figure drawing class twice a week, when he was well enough to get there—and plenty of times when he actually wasn’t—so Bucky knew he liked to draw bare torsos. And Bucky _also_ knew that _his_ bare torso was pretty nice to look at. If Steve didn’t draw him shirtless, he’d never draw him.

“In the kitchen?” Steve asked skeptically.

“I’m tired of wearing a tie all day,” Bucky defended himself. “And this shirt’s choking me all buttoned up like this.”

“Alright,” Steve said, shaking his head like he thought Bucky was losing it. Bucky got his shirt off and hung it across the back of one of their rickety kitchen chairs. When he tugged his undershirt up over his head, Steve looked at him again, face pinched in consternation.

“What on earth are you doing?” He asked.

“It’s hot in here,” Bucky said, which was the biggest lie of the century, maybe. It was freezing. And his traitorous skin took that opportunity to break into goosebumps. Steve shoved his hand against Bucky’s forehead, which would’ve been nice if not for the absolute bewilderment on his face.

“Are you sick or something?” Steve asked. “You got a fever?”

“No,” Bucky protested, shoving Steve’s hand away. “I’m just warm.”

“Well, you look cold.”

Bucky ignored that little barb and stretched his arms up high over his head. Steve liked movement. He liked the shift of muscles under the skin. Bucky knew that. So Bucky could play into that. He left his arms up like that.

“I have no idea what is going on with you the past few days,” Steve said, shaking his head. “It’s like you’ve lost your mind.”

“I have not!” Bucky said. “Jesus, can’t a man just enjoy a little cooling off in his own home?”

“Sure, I guess,” Steve said, still looking at Bucky like he was worried any sudden movements would startle him. “But you’ve never enjoyed a little cooling off before.”

“Oh, like you know my every movement,” Bucky snapped. Maybe Steve _did_ know his every movement. Maybe Steve _watched_. Maybe Steve paid attention.

“Don’t have much choice in this place,” Steve shot back, getting annoyed now because Bucky was. “If I got you sick, I’m sorry, but I don’t know why the hell you’re being so weird all the time lately.”

Bucky practically growled. “I’m not,” he insisted, snatching his shirt from the chair and stomping toward their bedroom. “I’m fine!”

“Fine!” Steve yelled back. Bucky closed the door as far as he could, which wasn’t far because the hinges were rusted and made such an awful noise they usually didn’t bother. He sat down on the edge of the bed and flung his shirt on the floor.

Steve obviously didn’t feel the same way Bucky did. Steve didn’t think about Bucky while he was gone and he wasn’t constantly aware of Bucky was in the room and he didn’t wonder what it would be like to wrap his arms around Bucky and kiss him. Fine. Big deal. Bucky would get over it.

He rested his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands. He would never get over it.

 

Bucky gave up for a few days, disheartened and grumpy, and every time he snapped at Steve he ignored the confused and wounded look he got in return. Bucky knew he had no right to be angry at Steve—it wasn’t Steve’s fault he wasn’t queer, and even if he was, it wouldn’t be his fault if he didn’t have the same feelings Bucky did.

But he still felt pretty sorry for himself and went stomping around like Steve had wronged him. He felt guilty, but he couldn’t seem to make himself stop. Bucky came home from work on Friday and Steve was sitting at the window. His sketchbook was in his lap, but he wasn’t even holding a pencil, and he was staring off into space.

“Hey,” Bucky said softly.

Steve looked at him cautiously. “Hi.”

“What’re you drawing?”

Steve looked down at the paper, seeming almost surprised to see it. “Nothing,” he said. “It’s blank.”

Bucky laughed a little. “You didn’t notice you had a blank piece of paper?”

Steve shrugged. “I was thinking.”

“Yeah, well, be careful with that. Don’t want to hurt yourself.”

“Ha. Ha.” Steve rolled his eyes. “How was work?”

Bucky loosened his tie, but not so far as the embarrassing day earlier that week when he’d tried to put on a _strip show_ for Steve. Jesus. “Same as always.”

There was silence between them. It wasn’t that they’d never fought before; they blew up at each other at least twice a month because they knew how to push each other’s buttons. But this wasn’t a fight. This was…nothing. Steve didn’t know why Bucky was mad and Bucky sure as _hell_ couldn’t tell him. Steve wouldn’t go to the police or anything like that, and he wasn’t event he kind of guy who’d move out to avoid Bucky, but still. He’d know immediately that Bucky wanted him, and the letdown would be gentle and terrible.

They avoided each other’s eyes for a minute, awkward silence still there, and then Bucky went into the kitchen. “You hungry?” He asked.

“Yeah,” Steve said. “Uh, sorry, I should’ve made something.”

“No, it’s not your job.”

Silence fell again. Bucky hated it. He rolled up his sleeves and started chopping potatoes, and of course, because he was focusing so hard on the weird silence between them, he ended up slicing his finger open three potatoes in.

“Shit!” He screeched. Steve threw his sketchbook down and came running in, which set him off wheezing again.

“Are you okay?” Steve asked.

“I cut my finger,” Bucky moaned. “Is it still there?”

Steve snorted. “Yes, it’s still there. Same five fingers.”

“It hurts.”

Steve grabbed a rag and pulled Bucky over to the sink. “Lemme see how deep it is.” He squinted down like his eyesight was anything other than mostly-useless in the dim light of the kitchen and then winced sympathetically. “Looks bad,” he admitted. “But I don’t think you’ll have to give up the finger.”

“Come on, quit teasing me,” Bucky huffed.

“Sorry,” Steve muttered. “Forgot you’re so sensitive lately.”

“I’m not sensitive!” Bucky said, pretty sensitively.

Steve rolled his eyes and didn’t comment, concentrating on washing the blood off Bucky’s hand and up his arm. “Didn’t get blood on your shirt,” he said instead.

“Oh, good,” Bucky said. “I’m down to two good shirts for work.”

A pained look crossed Steve’s face and Bucky wanted to kick himself. Saying anything about being short on money always made Steve feel guilty.

“Go sit down,” Steve commanded. “I’ll make dinner.”

“I’m fine,” Bucky said. Steve pinned him with a look and wrapped the rag around his finger.

“Just go sit down. I don’t want to eat fingers.”

Bucky grumbled, but he went and sat down. Maybe he was feeling woozy from blood loss. That could happen with a bad cut, right?

“So…” Steve started, his back to Bucky. “Are you ever gonna tell me why you’re mad at me?”

Bucky blew out a breath. “I’m not mad at you.” It was only partially a lie. He wasn’t _mad_ at Steve. He was mostly mad at himself.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Steve said quietly.

Bucky rubbed his eyes with his good hand. “I promise I’m not. I’m just…” He sighed. “How come you never draw me anymore?”

Steve stopped and finally turned around. “What?”

Bucky grumbled a little under his breath. But he’d already said it. In for a penny and all that. “You used to draw me all the time,” Bucky mumbled. “You don’t anymore.”

“You’re mad at me because I don’t draw you anymore?”

“I’m not mad,” Bucky repeated.

“Okay, you’re…upset that I don’t draw you anymore?”

Bucky dropped his eyes to the scuffed tabletop. “I don’t know.”

Neither of them said anything for a minute, and then Steve came closer. “Buck,” he said.

“Don’t worry about it,” Bucky said.

“Well, if you’re gonna keep freezing me out, I _have_ to worry about it.”

“I won’t,” Bucky promised. He peeked over at Steve from the corner of his eye and saw Steve’s eyebrows furrowed together in thought. Finally, Steve took a deep breath and crossed the room, picking up his discarded sketchbook from the floor. He came back and shoved it at Bucky.

It was Bucky, sleeves rolled up, tie loose, shoulders set to chop the potatoes. Bucky looked up, fast, and looked Steve in the eye. Steve looked hesitant.

“There’s more in my other book,” he admitted.

“You drew me tonight?” Bucky asked. “But I wasn’t even trying!”

“What?” Steve asked.

Bucky winced. “Well, I was sorta trying to get you to…” He broke off because Steve was laughing at him. “Shut up!” His ears were getting hot.

“Is that why you looked so constipated the other night?”

“I hate you,” Bucky muttered, face flaming. Steve stopped laughing. He bit his lip.

“I don’t think you do,” he said. Now _his_ face was getting red. Bucky swallowed hard, his heart starting to pound.

“No,” he admitted.

“I think you…” Steve licked his lips and Bucky tracked the movement. “I think you definitely opposite of hate me.”

“Yeah,” Bucky breathed. He couldn’t believe this was happening. He was frozen in place. They stared at each other for a long moment before Bucky made himself move. He leaned closer and then waited, his lips inches from Steve’s. Steve, of course, impatient and headstrong, surged up and pressed their lips together, and Bucky sucked in a breath.

Steve pulled back, blushing so fiercely they could probably cook dinner on his face. “Is that why you wanted me to draw you?” He asked.

“Uh, yeah,” Bucky admitted. “I just thought maybe you’d draw me a lot if you, you know, liked looking at my face.”

Steve burst out laughing, and Bucky didn’t even feel annoyed. It felt like there was a balloon in his chest, filling up and expanding and making him fly. “I’ve drawn you a million times, Buck,” he admitted. “I gotta try something else sometimes, too.”

“I guess,” Bucky agreed. They were smiling dopily at each other and Bucky could sing, he was so happy.

“I can think of a few ways I _haven’t_ drawn you,” Steve said wickedly. Bucky’s brain stopped working. He didn’t really know what to say or how to handle this. He didn’t have any kind of protocol for this situation.

“Oh,” he said. “Yeah. I could—I could model for that.”

“Think so?” Steve challenged, because he was Steve, and suddenly Bucky wasn’t the least bit unsure anymore. This was _Steve_ and he was Bucky and they always knew how to talk to each other.

“I _know_ so,” Bucky shot back cockily. Steve raised his eyebrows and then grabbed his sketchbook. He headed toward the bedroom and then paused, throwing Bucky a look over his shoulder.

“You gonna come be my model or what?” He asked. Bucky shot up off his chair faster than he’d ever moved in his life.

Later—hours later, much later than Bucky should’ve been awake with how early he’d been up that morning—Steve snorted into Bucky’s chest. Bucky craned his neck to look at him.

“What?”

“I just keep thinking about you trying to model for me without me knowing it,” Steve admitted, cracking up laughing. “I thought you were gonna fall out the window the other night. Bucky, you _took your shirt off_ right there in the kitchen!”

Bucky shoved him a little, but he was laughing, too. “I thought if I looked good enough you’d draw me.”

Steve’s smile went all soft around the edges. That was new and strange and _wonderful_. “You always look good enough to draw,” he promised. “It’s always been very distracting.”

“Glad to hear it,” Bucky said. “You can go ahead and draw me anytime you want.”

“Good,” Steve murmured, smiling and pressing his face into Bucky’s neck. “I will.”

And Bucky could always tell when he was, from the way Steve would look up at him without really looking _at_ him, the way he’d tilt his head while he looked, the way his eyes seemed to go everywhere at once. When Bucky saw that, he’d puff up with pride and stick out his chest and try to look as good as possible.

If it resulted in Steve dropping his sketchbook and not actually finishing the drawing, well, that was okay. Art could wait, and Bucky would always model for Steve later.

**Author's Note:**

> You can come listen to me being overdramatic about Steve and Bucky at [my tumblr!](http://www.biblionerd07.tumblr.com)


End file.
